


A Long Way Home

by flyingsharkmonkey



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7354243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingsharkmonkey/pseuds/flyingsharkmonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Connor hates his father. The man that abandoned him and his mother before he’d even been born.<br/>Oliver wants to make things right, fixing relationships that never properly began.<br/>Felicity is putting her life back together, trying to move past the hope of ever walking again.<br/>One family that can’t seem to get it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Talking of Michelangelo

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the beginning of a story i posted ages ago, but ive changed a lot since then. Hope i didnt make it worse :/

_**Boston, 2024** _

Connor doodled on the café napkin. Long curving lines formed into careful patterns and shapes. The action kept his nerves quiet and mind distracted. He had an eye for art, one Mama fondly declared hadn’t come from her gene pool. Generally, Connor liked the renaissance stuff, original ninja turtles: Donatello, Leonardo, Raphael, and Michelangelo (particularly Michelangelo). The mathematics in their work made sense. It turned the mess of creativity into a logical and achievable formula. Fifteenth century European art were puzzles meant to solved. Equations for perfection.

But modern art.

Modern art, and all that came after, caught Connor in a vice grip. The colours drew him in: careful, precise, and random. Between Romanticism and Impressionism, art lost its restrictions. The twentieth century heralded in a new age of useless creation. Art became confusing, unanswerable, leaving its viewers bewildered. Conner languished in that aspect, the not knowing. Unsolvable mysteries created from strategized chaos. Fury, beauty, and mundanity.

Connor sighed. He made a mistake. His art supplies were still in an unpacked box under his dorm bed. MIT’s freshman workload proved relentless. His grades weren’t bad but they weren’t close to what Ma’s had been. Felicity Smoak’s legacy didn’t fade easily. Time Magazine called her a genius: the mother of modern cyber security and a leading innovator in cybernetics. It made Connor proud but a little awkward. Connor lacked her affinity for computers. The coding and hacking didn’t come naturally. He had to work for it, study, and revise. While Ma had created super viruses that could take down governments at eighteen with a baby on her hip.

Mama didn’t understand his fascination but she liked to listen. _‘I can learn to love art’_ Ma said simply. She memorized the names and works as if studying computer code. A checklist of the world’s great art museums and galleries was pinned to her kitchen cork board with over a dozen large ticks. They traveled to Europe during summer break. London, Berlin, Paris. They were meant to see more but a day visit to the Louvre turned into a week. Connor wandered, wonderfully lost between Rembrandt and Monet, studying every brushstroke. Impressionism devoured Connor whole. The colour in the ‘Haystacks’ series became the object of day dreams. Yellows gliding into orange. Hints of purple. Touches of pink.

There were good art schools in America, with a strong modern scene. Art school might not have been easier than MIT but the expectations would have lessened. Connor toyed with the idea of switching departments. Dropping computer science like a hot potato and switching to the art department. Ma wouldn’t mind, not if he had a solid plan. Ma was good like that. She gave him room to make mistakes and change course, it was never a failure to her. His father’s side were another matter. An artist in the family: The Queens couldn’t imagine worse. That made the prospect more enjoyable and tempting.

Conner reached the edges of his doodled napkin. Drawing and painting calmed him. It cleared his mind in a way computers couldn’t. Connor needed a steady head for his Father’s visits. They were usually sprung by business trips with little warning.

They agreed to meet in a café far from Connor’s usual haunts. Connor didn’t want his father part of the Boston life he created, the one carved away from the dubious legacy as the bastard son of a billionaire playboy. However high the expectations of having a genius mother were, Connor would take that shadow over the Queen family glare any day.

Connor felt the room still as Oliver walked in. Oliver Queen held a strong presence. Even past forty, he drew the crowd’s eye in the small cafe. The man carried himself comfortable with power, familiar to wealth. Oliver’s fine suit was paired with strong jaw that always held high. Soft crow’s feet cornered Oliver’s eyes and his demeanour drew more severity than it did a decade prior, but that didn’t negate his good looks. The familiar feeling of inadequacy hit Connor’s gut.

Oliver approached his son smiling confidently. Connor didn’t trust that smile, he had seen it too often directed as an empty courtesy to strangers and business associates. It held little truth and false warmth.

‘Connor, son, it’s good to see you’

Connor grimaced. Son. Oliver used the term casually, throwing it into the greeting as if it came naturally. A soft anger swelled in Connor’s gut.

‘It’s nice to see you too, Oliver’ Connor replied, emphasizing the man’s name rather than genetic title.

Connor had never called him Dad. It seemed too intimate and alluded to a bond they did not have nor did Connor want. Oliver looked disappointed at the formality but quickly swept his face clean. Connor stiffly gestured for him to sit while refusing to meet the older man’s eye. These meetings were awkward and forced but they pleased Ma so Connor gave enough effort to show up.

Ma’s father never tried. The man walked out of seven-year-old Felicity Smoak’s life and didn’t bother to return. Connor reasoned these visits because of that. His mother rarely talked of the man, Noah Kutler. She shrugged off any mention of him and claimed he left too early for her to remember him. Instead it was Nana Donna who supplied the details softly when Connor asked.

_‘_ _She adored the man’_ Donna said with a sad smile ‘ _She looked at him like he hung the stars and moon. She kept thinking he’d come back. Building that damn computer so it’d be ready when he returned. When she finally finished it, it was like everything clicked, him leaving became real and him never coming back even more real…. So Felicity smashed it. Screamed and cried until she lost her voice and then she went quiet for so long I thought she’d never speak again.'_  

Connor had none of that sudden betrayed fury. His father’s abandonment occurred when he was less than two months in the belly. Conner didn’t have time to fall under the man’s spell. When they finally met, Connor was eleven and he already decided to hate Oliver Queen. He preferred to describe the man as a necessary donor to his gene pool. The one who gave him a strong jaw and dirty blonde hair.

Moira Queen liked to insisted Connor was a spitting image of eighteen-year-old Oliver, despite the lacking broad shoulders and strong stature. On that incentive, Connor kept his hair cropped short and always wore reading glasses. Connor didn’t need comparisons between him and Oliver nor would he be the grandson Moira desired. He refused to be another pawn in their sick game of wealth and power.

‘What are you doing in Boston?’ Conner asked bluntly. The question came across as accusatory, even to Connor’s own ears. Oliver didn’t flinch. He carried a business smile, calm and attentive.

‘The usual QC business.’ Oliver paused ‘I also wanted to see you. Your mother said you came down to Starling for a surprise visit last month, I would have liked to have seen you. We could have had a family dinner.’

Connor shifted his eyes focusing down on the doodled napkin. He didn’t want to say the truth. The truth that he hated those family dinners Oliver kept suggesting. They weren’t a family. Conner and his Ma were a family. Ray, Connor’s father, had been family. The Queens were unwanted intruders who came a decade too late to the party. Conner dealt with them for past seven years due to unfair custody rulings. But he was eighteen now and their wants meant squat. Oliver just needed to stay away from him and his mother and let them live their lives. Particularly Ma. Connor was old enough to recognise it now, even if she didn’t, the way Oliver’s eyes lingered on her. Hungry and eager like a teenager with a crush. 

‘It was just a quick visit’

Connor paused then reluctantly offered a little more information.

‘Ma won’t admit it, but I think she is a little lost without having someone to look after. She dives too deep into her work’

A genuine smile passed Oliver’s lips and his eyes lit with both worry and fondness. Connor refused to call it love.

‘She is rather extraordinary your mother, putting everyone and everything before herself. I’ve been worried too though, you’re right, she has been working too hard.’

Connor regarded Oliver cautiously and decided to ask bluntly.

‘Why did you want to see me? What do you want?’

Hurt flicked across the older man’s face but he didn’t deny it. He always wanted something. That’s how the Queen family worked.

‘Your mother and I have been spending a lot of time together lately, has she told you?’ Connor nodded.

He spoke to his Ma regularly. He hadn’t wanted to move to Boston, away from her, although she insisted. _‘I never expected you to take care of me Connor.’_ Felicity repeated, holding his face in her hands. _‘We can’t live scared anymore. That’s not what Ray would have wanted, not what I want. And I certainly don’t want you to feel responsible for me just because of this stupid chair.’_

Oliver’s visits increased after Connor left for college. He imagined it easier with no broody teenager eyeing him warily.

‘I wanted to talk to you about it first. I know how…. protective you are of your mother. But Felicity…’ Oliver treasured the name, playing with the syllables. ‘we have something. Something that I want to explore.’

Connor’s face twisted with anger.

‘Explore until you grow tired of playing house.’ Connor threw out bitterly.

His father’s calm demeanour faltered. Although Oliver knew Connor resented him it was rare for the boy to so openly reveal them.

‘Con, son…’

‘NO! You don’t get to call me that!’

Eyes from nearby tables gave them quick glances at Connor’s raised voice.

‘You came into my life eleven years too late. You don’t make up for anything we lost. You’re not my dad, not my real dad, not the man who raised me. You don’t get to replace him just because he’s gone. You don’t get to have my ma after you threw her away.’

What kind of man leaves a seventeen-year-old pregnant and alone? Seventeen. Connor could barely grapple that thought. She had been younger than he was now. His Ma didn’t disguise the truth. She told Connor how scared and angry she’d been, the feeling that her world was crashing down. _‘But as soon as I saw that winkled slimy little human face of yours, I knew it was worth it. That you’d be the best thing that ever happened to me.’_ Ma spent the first year as a mother alone. She managed to graduate from MIT, a little later than planned but still top of the class.

Then Ray came. First as her friend, then her partner, and eventually husband. By the time Conner was five, he was calling the man ‘Dad’.

Connor’s throat tightened as he felt the familiar grief swell in the pit of his stomach. Oliver leaned forward and grasped Connor’s shoulders tightly.

‘Ray was your Dad, and you are the son he raised’

Oliver said firmly

‘But like it or not, I am your father too, and I don’t want it to be just biologically. But that’s your choice Connor.’

Connor shrugged his father’s hands off. ‘And my Ma? You want a relationship with her right? That’s why you’re here’

Oliver kept a steady gaze ‘Don’t you think that’s for her to decide?’

Connor’s blue eyes lit up with fury and he stood suddenly, causing the table to jilt forward.

‘Do whatever the fuck you want Oliver, but if it’s a blessing you want, I won’t give it’

With that Connor stormed away, letting the door bang behind him.


	2. For a hundred visions and revisions

**_Starling City Memorial Hospital, 2017_ **

The boy did not recognize his father.

Logically, the eleven-year-old knew who Oliver Queen was. His Ma never lied about his birthfather. But still, when Connor William Smoak stared up at Oliver in person for the first time there was no flicker of recognition. Just a confusion that settled in front of a haze of fear and earth-shattering grief.

Officer Lance gripped the boy’s shoulder to steady him. An oversized sweater and ill-fitting pyjama pants drowned his small figure. A soft-spoken nurse provided the outfit, carefully removing the jeans that stunk of urine and the NASA Kids Club t-shirt with a blood-soaked hem. The hospital wasn’t cold but Connor’s skin was covered in goose bumps. His knees knocked together and teeth chattered. Conner hadn’t stopped shivering since the accident.

‘Do you know who this is?’ Officer Lance asked gently. The boy looked at Oliver Queen with dead eyes.

‘No’ Connor’s voice cracked.

‘Conner, this is Oliver. Oliver Queen. He’s your biological father’

The boy flinched at that word, his hands tightening into fists. _Father_. The word twisted in his gut, sending panic into his throat. His heart beat rapidly. Painful thumping distress signals. _No. No. No! STOP!_

‘No! he’s not!’

The rage came suddenly, morphing out of the grief. Connor tried to take a step back, surprised by his own feelings.

Connor didn’t understand rage. Not like this. He’d been angry before: angry that he couldn’t go to space camp, angry at the schoolyard bully, angry when his Ma wouldn’t let him play computer games before bedtime. But that anger didn’t feel like this. A white-hot rage flowed through him, pushing out at his fingertips, throat, mouth, gut, head. He wanted to vomit, to scream, to hit something. Connor settled on pushing forward, throwing everything he had at the stranger before him.

 ‘My Dad is Ray Palmer!’ Connor spat ‘And Mama says I’m going to be Connor Smoak-Palmer. We are the Smoak-Palmer family. I don’t know who that man is. He isn’t my father, he isn’t, he isn’t. I want my dad. I want my dad!’

_Dad. Daddy_. Connor wanted his Dad’s hand to grip his shoulder, to ruffle his hair. He wanted his Ma to hug him, warp her arms around him tightly, rocking and gently singing in his ear. The steady, unwavering stability of unconditional love.

 Connor refused to talk to Ray at breakfast that morning, ignoring the man as he ate his cereal sullenly. Dad promised he could go to space camp. Pinky swore. But then Ray told him ‘ _Sorry Kiddo_ , _it’s just not going to work out this year_ ’. Connor ducked when Ray tried to ruffle his hair and kiss the crown of his head.

Why didn’t he hug him? Connor dug his fingernails into his palm. He was stupid! Selfish! Why didn’t he kiss dad goodbye? Connor wanted to hit himself. Claw out his chest. Beat his head against the wall.

Then grief rolled back in waves and Connor slumped back into Officer Lance. His Dad was dead. Connor closed his eyes, desperate to block out the echo, the ringing silence that followed the bullet. Ray died half way through screaming his wife’s name. Begging. Pleading. Crying. Connor clutched his head, rocking on his heels.

Distantly, Connor heard Officer Lance yelling for a nurse. Strong hands gripped his shoulder as a needle pinched his arm. Then the world crept black.

 

 

**_Boston, 2024_ **

 

It took several days before the scowl left Conner’s face. His school work suffered but he found himself caring less and less. He had skipped three lectures already, holing up in his room to paint. Red, black and grey splattered across the canvas, like twisted metal on a rainy night.

‘Oh no’ his best friend, Barbara Gordon, groaned as she entered his dorm room ‘You’re angry painting’

Conner rolled his eyes and grunted.

‘Lay off, Babs’ He replied grimly, knowing the request was useless.

Barbara Gordon was one of the few friends who knew about his messy past. They met at the fancy prep school the Queen family insisted he attend, Babs was the best thing that came out of it. They clicked like peanut butter and jelly. Babs was brash, confidant, and wicked smart. She was everything Conner wasn’t but somehow the two of them worked. When his high school bullies cornered Conner against the lockers, it was always Babs who stood up for him. The tall, curvy, red-head was fearless to the point of stupidity.

‘Your Dad’s visit went that well, huh?’

Conner looked at her questioningly. He hadn’t mentioned Oliver’s visit to anyone, only his Ma knew about it.

‘Your Mum messaged me. You’ve been ignoring her calls. She’s worried.’

Babs hopped on his bed, kicking her shoes off and crossing her legs.

Guilt twisted in Conner’s stomach. He didn’t want his Ma to worry but he didn’t think he could take her disappointed sigh and soft pleas for him to ‘ _at least try_ ’. Conner pushed the feeling down and threw his best friend a frustrated look.

‘I hate that you and Ma are Facebook friends. It’s wrong on so many levels’

Babs clicked her tongue.

‘Too bad. Your Mum is a cool cat and pretty much my professional idol.’ Barbara’s voice then softened ‘She’s just doing what she does best: looking for the good in everyone, even if that person is a child-abandoning dickward.’

Conner let out a quick gruff laugh. Barbara’s dislike for Oliver Queen rivalled his own. She had even turned down a QC summer internship out of solidarity.

‘Guess so...’

‘What’re you painting?’

The changed subject lessened the tension in Conner’s chest. He took a step back from his canvas and examined the work. Beyond the grim colours, it was an experiment in texture. Some of his paints he’d mixed in so much linseed oil that they moved like water colours, other sections were splattered with paint that you almost needed to carve because it was so thick.

 ‘I’m just playing around, trying different styles.’

Conner always returned to these dark colours. Painting started as therapy after the accident. He’d always liked art but rarely used anything but coloured pencils until that point. Ma kept all his therapy paintings stored away. They dark, angry, and filled with grief: a way to purge the suppressed memory fragments out.

‘I’ve been thinking…’ Conner started, trying to figure out the right words ‘I, uh, think I want to, ah, I mean… I’ve been thinking about changing my degree.’

Bab’s eyebrow rose.

‘Really?’

‘yeah, I’ve been thinking I want to do something with… uh, art.’

A grin spread across Barbara’s face.

‘Seriously? I think that’s a great idea. Don’t get me wrong, its awesome having my BFF doing a CompSci degree with me but lets be honest, you’ve been fucking miserable since term started.’

Conner shuffled awkwardly. His worries were stupid but he needed to voice them, he needed reassurance.

‘You don’t think Ma will mind?’

Babs let out a short laugh.

‘You’re kidding right? I think your Mum was more disappointed when you _didn’t_ go to art school. Who do you think signed you up for RISD’s mailing list? Face it Moonboy, you’re the next Pablo Picasso and your just being buttheaded if you try to be anything else.’

She tossed a pillow at Conner’s head. It hit the side of his face then fell to the floor.

‘By the way’ Babs continued ‘Some girl was asking about you before Professor Hall’s lecture, she gave me her number to give to you.’

Conner perked up.

‘Really? Was she pretty?’

Barbara laughed ‘Calm down Casanova, she wanted to interview you. Something to do with your mum’

Conner visibly deflated. He’d been approached more than a few times by students wanting access to his Ma. Sometimes they wanted interviews other times it was internships or the opportunity to pitch the-next-best-thing-in-cybernetics. The interactions made Conner feel awkward and distrustful of his peers.

‘I wouldn’t have bothered telling you, but she said she was writing a piece on kids with disabled parents and you should think about doing it.’

 ‘Why?’ He replied with a slight whine.

‘Because, it might actually do some good. Share your experience, help others, all that crap. Its good to talk about things, cause, to be honest, you’re a bit of a pistachio, got to pry your feelings out.’

‘That’s what Nanna Smoak says’ Conner grumbled.

‘I _know_. Besides, if all else fails, you might finally get laid.’

Conner’s face turned bright red, causing Barbara to laugh loudly and dodge the pillow that hurtled at her head.


End file.
